Stone Butterfly (18 page)

Charlie Moon did not know how he knew, but know he did.
Sarah isn't here.

But being a professional lawman and an experienced poker player, he felt compelled to play the cards in his hand. Before descending from the pinnacle of Hatchet Gap, the tribal investigator cupped hands around his mouth, bellowed out a summons.

Echoes ricocheted off the stone walls like ghostly cannonballs. A startled black-tailed jackrabbit materialized from behind a cluster of snakeweed, skip-hopped along the narrow canyon floor, disappeared into a dark cleft. Simultaneously, a brownish gray mourning dove erupted from a thirsty juniper, fluttered away to some uncertain destination. After this, silence. Moon called out again. Louder, this time.

Startled from a dreamless sleep, Sarah Frank shuddered, jerked her thin body erect. “Here I am!”

The bus driver observed her startled reflection in the yard-wide rearview mirror.

Sarah looked back at him. “Somebody called my name.” The half-awake girl was immediately embarrassed by this revelation.

“Wasn't me.” The driver, who had a schedule to keep, checked his pocket watch.

The cavernous coach chased its long shadow. Ever eastward.

After a few heartbeats, the passenger drifted off toward her dreams. Ever homeward.

The panel of handprints now behind him, Charlie Moon set his face toward the lonely end of Hatchet Gap, where an old man had returned home only yesterday—to encounter a violent assault, an untimely death.

Special agent McTeague's willowy silhouette was neatly framed in the open back door of the house recently vacated by Ben Silver. While a reddening sun fell inexorably toward its nightly destination, she kept her gaze fixed on the Gap.
Why is Charlie taking so long—could he have found some trace of Sarah?

After generously helping himself to the contents of the dead man's pantry, Sheriff Ned Popper was enjoying a steaming cup of cocoa and a box of stale Fig Newtons. All things considered, he was satisfied with the aloof woman's company and the simple snack. He was not, he mused, a hard man to please. Reaching for his umpteenth hard cookie, he shattered the comfortable silence. “Caught sight of him yet?”

Having almost forgotten his presence, McTeague twitched at the sound of the lawman's voice. “No,” she mumbled. “Not yet.” A west wind, fragrant with the scent of sage, whispered in the willows. “Wait…” She held her breath, squinted to focus on a distant speck. “Yes. I think I see him.” She did not realize that her lips had parted in a smile—as if this was
her
man, coming home…

Popper stuffed the last surviving member of the Newton clan under his mustache, munched it. “Soon as he gets here, I'll do the crime scene dog-and-pony show again and then—” The sheriff's cell phone warbled, and he jammed the thing against his ear. “Popper here.” He listened impassively. “Okay, I'm on my way.” He got up from his chair at the kitchen table, tossed the house key to the fed. “After you show Mr. Moon where Ben got knocked off his pegs, you can lock up the place. If your Ute friend wants to know something I ain't already 'splained to you, he'll have to catch me later. Right now, I've got to get back into town.” He stuffed the miniature telephone into a shirt pocket. “There's been a big knock-down drag-out at the Gimpy Dog. Deputy Packard needs an extra hand and Bearcat's out on another call.” As he went clomping down the hall and through the parlor, McTeague heard the crusty old lawman muttering. “Day in, day out, nothing but domestic disturbances, car wrecks, and bar fights. I should've been a barber, like my daddy.”

When Moon arrived, McTeague showed him around the Silver residence. The fed repeated everything Sheriff Popper had told her.

The tribal investigator stared at the taped outline on the floor. Mr. Silver had evidently been a small man.
Small enough to be felled by a fourteen-year-old girl with a baseball bat.

As it happened, the tribal radio station was broadcasting two hours of bluegrass Big Names. Flatt and Scruggs. Doc Watson. Ricky Scaggs. The Dillards. It was quite lively stuff, and if the year had been 1930 or thereabouts, Daisy Perika might have been kicking up her heels, clapping her hands, making plans to mail Sears & Roebuck six greenback dollars for a five-string banjo—With Complete Instructions Included!

But time had done its cruel work on her bent frame. Seated on the sofa, the weary woman was only half-listening to KSUT FM. Having just finished a snack of walnuts and prunes, she was hunched forward, squinting intently at the work on her lap. What she was doing was sewing tiny blue-and-white beads onto a miniature pair of goatskin moccasins. These were for Myra Cornstone's most recent baby boy—which made four in a row, and the young woman wasn't even married to the
matukach
truck driver who shared her bed. Not that this was altogether Myra's fault, of course. The way Daisy saw things, Charlie Moon was mostly to blame. Just a few years back, when Myra had only one baby, Daisy's nephew had an opportunity to marry the nice-looking young Ute woman—but what did Charlie do? Why the big jug-head muffed his chance, of course. When it came to women, all Charlie did was chase after those blue-eyed, white-skinned
matukach
hussies! In her anger, Daisy poked the needle all the way through the soft leather sole—and into her thumb.

“Ouch!” She also muttered a few other expletives, which shall remain unreported.

Daisy sucked a droplet of blood from the puncture wound, blamed the painful injury on Charlie Moon, and made herself a solemn promise to have yet another talk with her nephew. (“Having a talk” meant giving him a finger-shaking-in-your-face lecture, under which circumstances he was expected to sit and listen and not open his mouth except to say “Yes ma'am.”) In Daisy's view, it was high time Charlie settled down with a nice Ute girl. Or—if it came to that—even an uppity Navajo, or one of those shifty-eyed Pueblo Indians. But not an Apache, thank you. That would be going a tribe too far. The point was, if Ute women and men kept marrying up with the whites, why in another fifty or sixty years the whole tribe would be a bunch of pale-faced, yellow-haired so-called Indians who wouldn't know a bow-and-arrow from a willow basket. The more the aged woman pondered the grim situation, the more she was convinced that this was a devious plot by those devilish
matukach
to get control of tribal lands and gas leases and the casino. Daisy knew exactly how they went about it. It started with all those flashy movies and TV shows about rich white people who were always having such a fine time. That Hollywood propaganda was what got the younger, softer-headed Utes to thinking about—

She jumped when Alexander Graham Bell's invention rang. Ben Silver's soul mate glared at the offensive thing.
Depend on a dead white man to come up with an infernal machine that scares a peaceable old woman out of her wits.

It did it again.

Setting her work aside, Daisy put the receiver to her ear. “If you want to sell me something, you'd better hang up before I forget I'm a lady and tell you where you can stick your telephone—”

“It's me.”

“Charlie?”

“Last time I looked.”

“Don't you get sassy with me.” She recalled that he had bought her the new telephone. “This blasted thing rings too loud. When it goes off, my old heart just about stops.”

“Turn it down.”

“What?”

“There's a little switch on the side that sets the ringer volume. You can switch it to low.”

“I don't like to mess with switches and knobs and whatnot. Next time you're here, you can set it for me.” She got a fresh breath. “And why're you wasting our time talking about stupid telephones? I've been waiting all day for you to call and tell me what you've found out about Sarah Frank.”

“Uh—that's what I called about.”

“Well then get on with it!”

“We've been in Tonapah Flats, met with the sheriff. They're still looking for Sarah.”

Daisy tried to decide whether this was good news or bad. “Where could she be?”

“Don't have any idea.” A pause. “But there's a chance she might head for Colorado.”

The old woman's heart raced. “You think she might come to my place?”

“You're the only person she knows on the res.”

Daisy shook her head. “It's a long, long way for a girl of her age to travel alone.”

“If she knocks on your door, I hope you'll let me know.”

Evading the subtle question, she said: “What do you mean ‘we'?”

“Beg your pardon?”

“You said ‘
We've
been in Tonapah Flats.' Who's there with you?” Scott Parris, she hoped.

“Special Agent McTeague.”

“Oh.” Disappointment fairly dripped from Daisy's lips. “That tall, skinny white FBI woman.” She heard Moon's chuckle in her ear.
He don't understand nothing.
“Myra Cornstone's had another baby.” A pause. “And I know for a fact that you're not the father!”

Moon could not come up with a defense against this charge.

“I'm making some moccasins for it.” Daisy added acidly: “When the whites take control of the reservation, don't say I didn't warn you.”

“Uh—right.”
What in the world is she talking about?

Daisy shifted gears again. “I just can't believe Provo Frank's little girl would actually murder somebody.”

“We don't know exactly what happened yet,” the tribal policeman said. “So let's not jump to conclusions.” There was a roaring sound as a cattle truck on the westbound side of the interstate made a not-so-close encounter, rumbled off toward the looming sunset. “If I hear anything I'll give you a call.”

“Don't call—come by and see me.” Her tone was softer now, almost pleading. “We could go into town. Maybe have some lunch at Angel's.”

“It's a date.” The cell phone signal was starting to break up. “I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

Daisy returned the instrument into its cradle, picked up her needlework, stared at the tiny pair of moccasins.
Seems like half of the Indian children I know end up dead or in jail before they have time to grow up.
She got up, hobbled off into the kitchen to make a fresh pot of coffee—and as she would tell Louise-Marie LaForte during her next telephone conversation with the elderly French-Canadian woman: “I almost jumped out of my skin!”

What almost made Daisy shed her wrinkly epidermis was Yadkin Dixon. Or more explicitly, Mr. Dixon's homely face—which was peering in through the kitchen windowpane. Daisy Perika was in no mood for nonsense. The enraged woman hit the back door like an antique locomotive with a full head of steam. Before the slab of oak had slammed behind her, she shook a fist and screamed: “What d'you think you're doing, you big Peeping Tom!” This was more insult than inquiry—she had not the least interest in what the white man thought he was doing.

Undaunted by this affront to his dignity, the unflappable Mr. Dixon tipped his tattered hat. And offered her a short-handled ax. “I believe you wanted this returned?”

Daisy snatched her property from his hand, pitched it onto a pile of kindling wood. “Thanks for nothing.” She pointed in a direction that was away from her home. “Now get going before I lose my temper.” The bottom of her face split into a froggish grin. “If you ain't out of sight by the time I count to three, I'll go get my twelve-gauge and pepper your behind like it was a fried egg!”

“Woman, I am impervious to your blustering threats.” The superstitious vagrant produced a peculiar-looking object from his shirt pocket. It was a tiny portrait of a famous Indian warrior encased, along with a few grains of blue corn pollen, in plastic. “In case you do not recognize this object, it is a powerful magic amulet given to me by an Apache medicine man. It protects the owner from buckshot, bullets, and arrows—none of these things can hurt me.”

“Is that right?” The Ute woman squatted to pick up a peach-sized stone. “Let's see if Big Chief Geronimo can protect you from this!” Before Yadkin Dixon could dodge, she made an overhand throw, which went low, landing a few inches below the buckle on his belt.

From the man's yelp, it may reasonably be concluded that it hurt.

Still a Long Way from Home

As if in response to some subtle subliminal signal, Sarah Frank floated up from a deep sleep, surfaced into a dreamlike consciousness. What she saw—through the windshield and down the road—was an enchanting picture from the pages of her memory book. There in the slanting light of the late-afternoon sun, just as she remembered it, was the sturdy bridge. Under it, the Piedra—swollen with foamy snow-melt—roared its boisterous way south toward Navajo Lake. She knew that a few miles on the other side of the tumultuous river, at the end of a rutted dirt road, Aunt Daisy's cozy little trailer home was nestled among a cluster of juniper and piñon. In hopes of seeing it, the girl closed her eyes. But what the visionary perceived were shadows from the past. Sarah shuddered, dismissed these troublesome ghosts. “You can let me out at the bridge,” she shouted, and scooped up her backpack.

Mr. Zig-Zag stretched his neck to see what all the fuss was about.

Slowing, the driver glanced at the long, narrow mirror above his head. “This line don't leave passengers with miles and miles to walk before they get to their destination.”

The frail little girl was at his elbow. “If you crossed the bridge, right away you'd have to turn off the gravel road”—she pointed—“and onto a narrow dirt lane. You couldn't drive this big bus on it.”

Braking to a stop by the roadside, he arched a brow with justifiable pride. “I'll have you know—I can drive this vehicle wheresoever I wants to.”

“No you can't.” She used the firm tone of a stubborn young woman who has made up her mind. “I'll get off here.”

“Well…” he sighed, “okay.” One of the Rules of the Line was that when a passenger wanted off, no ifs, ands, or buts—the driver must comply. He pushed the crank to open the door. “But it's way too far to walk.” He pointed. “You and Mr. Zag go over yonder to the far side of the bridge and wait for your next ride.” Seeing she was about to open her mouth, he raised a finger to his lips: “Shush! And listen to what I'm tellin' you. There's a nice young lady I know who's got a summer job up at Chimney Rock Archaeological Site. Mary generally gets off earlier, but today she had to work late, so she'll be by in her Jeep—” he consulted the trusty pocket watch, “—in about twenty minutes. You just give her a big wave—Mary'll be glad to take you the rest of the way to Daisy's place.”

Sarah thanked the peculiar man, who seemed to know everything about everybody. After watching the bus pull away, she crossed the bridge over the Piedra. While Mr. Zig-Zag stalked some unseen prey, the girl stood in the shadow of a mushroom-shaped willow. After what seemed to be a terribly long time (almost three entire minutes!) she began to wonder whether the black man really knew a young lady who worked at Chimney Rock. And even if he did, how would he know she was coming home late today? Off to the northwest, the sky was darkening. A sudden breeze rippled through the willow branches, chilled her thin legs.
Nobody's going to show up.

Barely sixteen minutes later, Mary Hale's mud-splattered CJ-5 rumbled onto the Piedra bridge. The driver saw no one standing on the other side.

Sarah Frank's small form was far down the dirt road—and quite out of sight.